


(you've got to pick up) every stitch

by Unchained_Daisychain



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Bathtub crises, Drinking Games, Drunken Flirting, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Flirting, Halloween, Halloween Costumes, M/M, One Shot, Smut, Top John, ft. cowboys; jokers; sexy cops; vampires; etc., george is just here for pizza tbh, halloween party, i've had this idea for so long now, john thinks halloween costumes are s u g a r g a y, john's passive aggressiveness is suburban mom tier, paul is too social for his own good, sorry stuart is so cunty but i had to do it to em, why is this my first time writing top John??
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-03
Updated: 2019-11-03
Packaged: 2021-01-20 21:42:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21288626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unchained_Daisychain/pseuds/Unchained_Daisychain
Summary: John hates Halloween, but he loves making his ex jealous. And if he uses a total stranger to do it, well…what’s the harm in that?-And there it is. Even though a foreboding itch in the corner of his mind told John it was coming, the word still cuts through the music and the drunken chatter and plows into him with almost enough force to send him to the floor. Or into a fit of laughter. Maybe both.Not even ten minutes ago they were strangers in the bathtub. Now,apparently, they’re boyfriends.Because of course they are.
Relationships: John Lennon & Paul McCartney, John Lennon/Paul McCartney, John Lennon/Stuart Sutcliffe (Mentioned)
Comments: 24
Kudos: 178





	(you've got to pick up) every stitch

**Author's Note:**

> this is my first time using the ios messages, so let me know if it fucks w the format and i'll avoid using it in the future. as of rn everything looks gucci on my end.
> 
> hally happoween e'rybody
> 
> <s>one day i'll post on time</s>

John has been handling the breakup well enough. 

It’s been three months since Stuart left him for the artsy slag in his photography class. Last years are already supposed to be stressful enough with an increased workload and the pressures of graduation, but of course his ex had to pile onto the chaos by ending their two-year relationship only a few months before the new school year started.

John tries not to let it get him down, though. He’s no worse of a student than he was the years’ past, with the help of Ringo and good music his spirits stay high, and most nights some lube and a strong right hand convinces him he’ll never need another relationship again.

Then Halloween rolls around.

And it’s fucking ridiculous, really, because he shouldn’t feel so dispirited about a bunch of adults unleashing their inner slut for one night of the year. Except it isn’t the risque costumes that deepen the ache in his gut. It’s the _ couples _ costumes and cute Instagram posts and the incurable loneliness that accompanies every holiday.

Practically since the beginning of October, Ringo has been trying to coax John into attending a Halloween party with him to drag him from his funk. As the 31st creeps closer on the calendar, he bombards him more and more with fliers he spots or texts he receives about invites. 

Every time John shoots him down.

Staring down at another screenshot of yet _ another _ invite (this time from Rory), he groans.

“No!” he shouts through their flat instead of responding to the text.

“Please!” Ringo yells back, then John hears footsteps heading for his room. The door swings open and, hand still on the knob, he stands in the doorway with a pleading look on his face. “John, c’mon—”

“I don’t wanna go,” he mutters, eyes staying locked on his phone as he switches back to Twitter.

“Why not?”

“I already told you, they’re daft and we’re all too old to be prancin’ around in costumes all night. If I see another fuckin’ slutty cat, I swear I’ll stab me eyes out.”

“You’re just being a grump. I think it’ll do you good to have some fun, meet some new people.” He pauses, and John can already hear what’s coming next.. “And…I can ask Rory if he was invited.”

His finger stops mid-scroll. He blinks at the screen, then finally meets Ringo’s eyes. 

He knows he can’t avoid Stuart forever, especially not when they shared the same friend group. If an invite gets extended to both of them, one of them is bound not to show. Most often, John has been the one who stays behind, because while Stuart flaunts his latest arm-candy around campus, John has nothing and no one to show for himself.

Truth be told, he _ is _ rather tired of being the one still stuck in the past.

“I just want you to be happy again,” Ringo says, like every thought is being live-streamed across John’s forehead. But his blue eyes shimmer with sincerity and make it nearly impossible to refuse him another time. 

“Alright, fine,” John sighs. “Find out if he’s going.”

* * *

Thursday night John stands in front of his mirror wearing a striped jumper and a pair of black jeans. With his fingers, he combs through his fringe, styling it just enough to look like he gives a shit but not too much of one. Ringo might be able to drag him out of the flat for a party, but he downright refuses to throw on some absurd costume for it.

Speaking of absurd costumes…the rhythmic jingle of boot spurs draw closer to his room and an insuppressible smile sneaks onto John’s lips. Ringo steps into the room, but all John can see is a tan fringed vest, two children’s pistols nestled into a leather holster, and a black Stetson hat.

“You look ridiculous,” John tells him, bending over to tie the laces of his boots.

“I look _ festive,” _ Ringo argues with the barrel of one of the pistols pointed at him. “Unlike you.” 

He pulls the trigger and John snorts at the pathetic mechanical click.

“Count yerself lucky you even got me to go. I draw the line at dressing up,” he says, flicking the rim of his hat as he walks past him. 

Those jingling spurs, clinking with every knock of his heels like pebbles in a tin can, follow him to the door. “That’s where you fucked up. See, me, I have a talking point now—a conversation starter, if you will.”

“Yeah,” John laughs as he slips on his jacket. “‘Who invited the bloke that wandered off the set of _ Bonanza?’” _

“Piss off,” Ringo mutters. He repositions his hat on his head and smooths out his vest, then looks back at John. “Let’s go, then, I wanna be fashionably late.” 

Shaking his head, he lifts an eyebrow. “I don’t think yer gonna be fashionably _ anything _ in that costume, mate.”

Ringo cuffs him over the back of the head as they leave their flat.

By the time they arrive, the party is already swarmed with people. Capes of various lengths dragging behind them like tails, halves of couples walking around and looking ludicrous without their partner to complete them, and far too many _ Game of Thrones _ and _ Stranger Things _ references for John’s liking. From a Spotify playlist “Season of the Witch” blares throughout the flat, which, at a glance, is the only redeemable quality so far. 

John snorts quietly to himself as he sees a few paper bats hanging from the ceiling here and there. The kitchen counter was presumably once trimmed with garlands of black and orange, but half of them have since fallen to the floor thanks to the excess of liquor and chasers edging them over the side; and on a small shelf by the door is a black Halloween tree with precisely one ornament on it—a reindeer at that. Given that it’s Rory’s party, however, he doesn’t quite know why he expected anything more.

In the crowd John spots the mastermind behind all of it, his mass of striking blond hair buoying above the sea of guests. Rory steals a glance at them and immediately shoulders over with a bottle of vodka in his hand and a wide grin on his face.

“Johnny! Ritchie! Thanks for comin’ round, boys.”

“What’s with the shoddy decorations, Rory?” John asks.

“Flat full’a blokes, John,” Rory defends with a smile. “All our efforts went into the booze”—he waves the half-empty Popov bottle—“help yourselves to any of it, alright?”

“Alright, ta, mate,” Ringo says. “For the drinks _ and _ the invite.” 

“Yeah, don’t mention it.” He leans closer, eyes on John and voice lowered. “And John, don’t worry about…_ y’know. _ He didn’t get an invite.”

With a forced smile he says, “Thanks for lookin’ out.”

One of the worst things about the breakup has been everyone walking on eggshells around him. Stuart’s name seems to have been wiped completely from his friends’ vocabulary and it only leaves John to wonder if they suddenly forget his too when Stuart is around.

“I always liked you better anyway,” he offers, winking.

“Wish I could say the same,” John teases, ready to be done with the conversation. He could go for a few drinks.

“Right. Well, enjoy the party, lads.” He pats them on the shoulder, but before he gets too far, he turns around to add, “Oh, and listen, if you see a Tolkien hobbit runnin’ round, let me know, yeah? He owes me ten quid.”

John raises his eyebrows, the playfulness creeping back over him step by step. “Ritchie, you didn’t tell me you owed Rory money.”

Ringo shoves his shoulder. “Fuck off.”

Rory smiles at both of them and tips his head. “Cheers, lads,” and then he’s off again. 

Ringo looks at him, a smile swimming in his ocean eyes. “How ‘bout a bevvy?”

John extends an arm to the kitchen. “Lead the way, cowboy.”

“Which is it, then, a cowboy or a hobbit?”

“Ask me again in seven drinks.” 

* * *

For the first half hour John genuinely enjoys himself. He sees a few blokes who he _ thinks _ might be attractive, but he can’t be sure with all of the fake blood and prosthetics stuck to their faces. He made the mistake of asking one of them what he was supposed to be and spent the next eight minutes (he counted) entrapped in a lengthy explanation that still left John confused as all hell. He ducked out of that conversation by getting a refill he didn’t need.

As it so happened, it led him into a different, more interesting conversation with some guy dressed as Joaquin Phoenix’s Joker. Darren, he says his name is. A lot of their chat centers around the movie and how enraptured they both were by it, and the only times John gets distracted are when his eyes wander to the man’s pillow lips that all of the clown makeup in the world couldn’t hide. 

Just when John starts to see promise in Darren, none other than Heath Ledger’s Joker strolls into the tiny kitchen. Immediately freezing on the spot, they both point at each other and the whole thing is a tableau of the cloned Spider-man meme that actually has John laughing despite the ill-timed interruption. 

While he waits out their exchange of words, the front door to Rory’s flat opens and John can’t believe there are _ still _ people coming in. There’s hardly enough room to take a breath in some spaces throughout the flat as it is.But once he catches a glimpse of the couple walking through the door, taking a breath is the least of his concerns. 

He forgets how to breathe at all.

Stuart.

And, on his heels like a stray puppy, Astrid. 

Already they’re being greeted by a friend, and goddammit, John should have known—he should have _ known _ this would happen. Because obviously the world has some agenda against John Lennon and he could transfer to any university overseas yet still somehow manage to bump into his ex.

Fuck.

Ditching the Jokers and any hopes at moving on, he frantically scours the packed party in search of Ringo.

Behind layers of lace and polyester and false teeth, he finds him crammed onto a sofa chatting up some brunette. He squats down beside the arm of the sofa, doing his best to remain unseen, and repeatedly taps his mate’s shoulder.

Eyebrows raised, he turns to him.

“Ringo—Ringo, he’s fuckin’ _ here, _ mate,” John says, voice panic-stricken. His pulse thumps a quick tempo in his neck. “I fucking knew I shouldn’t’ve come.”

His friend frowns. “What?”

_ “Stuart _ is _ here,” _ John repeats, slower and sharper, then finally sees it click.

Ringo leans up to scan over the faces drifting around the flat. “Shit, really?” 

“Yes! What do I do?!”

“John, love, take this”—he hands him a shot of something clear, either vodka or tequila—“then just go say hullo and get on with your night like the responsible adult you are.” 

John downs the shot. Vodka.

The hissing burn distracts him but pales in comparison to the anxiety racing through his veins. He can’t do this. He’s not ready yet. Stuart ripped out his heart and dropped it in a bucket of ice, but John is supposed to just pretend it’s suddenly thawed when he bumps into him in public? 

“You grossly overestimate me,” he tells Ringo, shaking his head.

He twists in his seat to better fix John with his serious eyes. “Why does he get to be happy and you don’t?”

John doesn’t know whether he appreciates his friend’s equanimity or envies it. He nods anyway, convinces himself the agreement will seep its way into his bones. 

Taking a deep, reassuring breath, he makes his way back to Stuart and Astrid, moving across the room like an apparition. Cynically he realizes he didn’t need a costume anyway. He’s no different than those clowns in the kitchen. He’s the roaming and searching ghost of a brutal breakup. It may not be as evident at first, but he’s hidden beneath just as many layers as everyone else at this party. 

Hovering a safe distance away from the pair, he uses the bodies around him as temporary camouflage while he watches them, still conversing with the friend who greeted them.

But this time when he sees them—when he _ really _ sees them, his heart sinks in his chest. Ice hardening, frostbite in his chest.

It’s Stuart and Astrid, yes; but it’s not entirely them. It’s also Victor and Emily. From _ Corpse Bride. _

And honestly it’s fucking stupid, because John never really _ pressured _ Stu to dress up on holidays. As was the case with most issues, their stance on adult Halloween costumes was a shared one: they’re a childish, attention-seeking waste of time. Yet here he stands, so unbothered, so hypocritical, in the middle of a Halloween party—his face a whiter shade of pale, locks of his hair falling away from his groomed middle-part and onto his forehead, the black suit emphasizing every untouchable stretch of him that once held John’s kiss. 

He doesn’t know why it hurts to see Stuart contradicting all of his claims—why it even _ matters. _ Why it thrusts a fist-sized lump into John’s throat to watch him grin and tuck Astrid’s faux-phantom blue hair behind her ear and be one half of something that isn’t himself. 

Part of him never wants to figure it out.

_ Why did he dress up for her…? _

Before John realizes what he’s doing, he beelines for the loo and shuts himself inside, back leaned against the closed door just for the faintest semblance of solidity. He takes a deep breath, chews on his bottom lip. Doesn’t know whether he wants to cry or scream or hit something. Probably all three, though.

He sits on the edge of the bath, buries his head in his hands, setting his hair on end. A small, cowardice part of him wishes the drain was plugged and water was waiting, stagnant and cold, behind him. He could spread his arms and let himself slip under. Let the water rush into him. Crack the ice.

Breakups in the past never affected him nearly as much as this one. Within a week he could be over them and under somebody new. But Stuart is different. His longest relationship, a best friend long before a lover; now he acts like John was nothing but a casual fling, moving on without batting an eye while John wallows in the heartache with nothing to show for himself after three months except the tear stains on his jumper.

After a few minutes he has somehow managed to sink fully into the tub and his downward spiral alike. While he’s in the middle of planning his furtive escape from the party and this humiliating situation, the bathroom door opens. The Cranberries shove their way in before they’re shut out again. He jerks his head up to see a long-legged, dark-haired bloke in a cop uniform locking the door behind himself and heading for the toilet. 

The navy blue shirt of his uniform has been rolled up at the sleeves, exposing his hairy forearms and hugging his biceps. The first few buttons have been popped open and the ridge of his collar bone stands out as prominently as a mountain. A black belt accentuates slender hips and a nice, firm arse that _ does not _ catch John’s attention. Neither do those endless legs—a lethal, concealed weapon all of their own. The costume doesn’t quite seem like it was advertised as salacious, but the few modifications made to it show clear intent.

He takes no notice to John at all.

Just before he gets the the zip down on his trousers, John abruptly speaks up: “I know I should’ve locked the door, but you also could’ve knocked.”

Sexy Cop startles at John’s voice, spinning around at breakneck speed with a hand clutching his badged chest like a string of pearls, and if John weren’t so goddamn stressed he would probably laugh. 

“Bloody hell, you scared the shit outta me.” He sighs, eyes closed while he recovers. The front of him looks even more stunning. Everything dark yet enchanting—Halloween personified. Brows shaped with the slender arch of a crow wing, lips full and pouty, eyelashes long and sweeping like spiders’ legs. “Sorry, mate, erm, were you gonna…?” he asks, pointing to the toilet.

John gestures with his hand. “Be my guest.”

Seemingly unbothered by John’s awkward and questionable presence, Sexy Cop lifts the lid, unzips his trousers, and takes a piss. As far as his current Halloween Mishaps™ go, however, this one surprisingly ranks low on the list.

“I’d hold it if I could, y’know, but the highballs have really caught up to me,” the bloke says conversationally.

“Right.”

The toilet flushes and he twists on the sink—and fucking hell, can’t a man have an existential crisis in a friend’s bathtub in peace? 

Apparently not because, turning his head to the side as he washes his hands, Sexy Cop hesitantly asks, “You, uh…you weren’t in here last time I took a piss, were you?”

John can’t help but smile at that. “Don’t worry, I just got here.”

He nods and dries his hands on his hips, then suddenly his face lights up—eyebrows shooting up like the bird is in flight and impossibly large, hazel eyes twinkling under the soft yellow lighting. “Wait, are you, like, supposed to be that Vine? The ‘I’m washin’ me and my clothes, _ bitch, _’ is that your costume?”

John chuckles quietly, shakes his head. “Unfortunately I’m not that creative.” 

His mouth quirks in faint disappointment and John hates to have burst his bubble. “Would’ve been pretty limiting anyway, that one. Gotta stay in the bath the whole party if you want people to get it.”

“Yeah,” John laughs. It feels good to smile; his initial annoyance over the bloke’s presence diminishes each time he coaxes one from John’s lips. “You’ve given me a great idea for next year, though.”

“Happy to help,” he says with a grin. He crosses his arms over his chest and nods to John’s position in the tub, knees tucked in tight. “So, why _ are _ you in the bath, then?”

Sighing, he glances at a bottle of Old Spice before answering, “Seemed like the best place to avoid someone at a party.”

“A one night stand?”

He snorts. “I wish.”

Sexy Cop lifts an eyebrow. “An ex?”

“Ding, ding, ding.”

He clicks his teeth. “God, that’s rough, innit? Campus seems fuckin’ huge until you’re actively tryin’ to dodge someone.”

John has a running list in his head of places that are off-limits now after the breakup. The coffee shop on campus with the best muffins around. The library, which was arguably the biggest upset because he always had a perfect nook on the top floor. The smoking tree Stuart frequents anytime he wants to appear edgy and a smidgen pretentious. Then again, maybe he should just transfer; his feet have worn a brown, boot-trodden path from his room to his classes and back again.

“Tell me about it,” he answers, only half-aware he’s still entertaining this fairly intimate conversation with a stranger while he sits dejected and sulking in an empty bathtub. “Rory told me he wasn’t invited, but it’s just my luck he showed anyway.”

“Are you just gonna set up camp in the bath all night, then? At a party fulla drunks, I don’t think the loo is actually the best place to hide. He’s bound to come in.”

“Just seemed like the thing to do at the time. He was right by the door and there were no fire alarms around to pull.”

Sexy Cop laughs and asks, “That nasty of a split, eh?”

“Depends whether you consider another person’s darkroom-developed nudes to be cheating or artistic expression.”

Saying it out loud feels like the fingerprints of a firm slap resurfacing on his cheek. Discovering those pictures for the first time felt about the same way too.

His thin eyebrows shoot up, jerked taut by an invisible string. _ “Darkroom-developed _ nudes?”

John tightens his lips, nods. “Black and white. _ Multiple _ angles. Some slag from his photog class.”

“Shit, man.” He shakes his head, then, a flip switched, snaps and points a finger at John as a smirk creeps onto his lips. “I know just what you need. Hang on.” 

He opens the door before John can suck in a breath to ask where he’s going. Outside in the hall, however, he hears, “Wouldn’t go in there if I was you, love. Five-layer burritos and whisky-cokes don’t mix too well,” and bites his lip on the smile that threatens to grow there.

Closing his eyes, he breathes a sigh and leans his head against the beige-tiled wall. _ What the hell are you doing, Lennon? _ he thinks. His first instinct upon spotting his ex at a party should never be to flee to the bathroom and take refuge in a questionable, uni-student tub. His first instinct upon meeting an attractive stranger should never be to lament over said ex like a pathetic, woebegone tween. 

In his defense, though, the bloke has been quite the interrogator. 

John can’t help but perk up when Sexy Cop returns with a couple of Smirnoffs wedged between his fingers. “What’s all this?” he asks, following the bloke’s movements as he tosses a leg over the edge of the tub and squeezes in on the opposite end.

“I’m officially invested now,” he says and adjusts himself so the spout isn’t digging into his back. 

John frowns, suddenly feels stupid for even dipping his toe into his problems. “No, really, ‘m fine. Go back and enjoy the party.”

He waves a hand. “Come off it. Me mate was in a rather heated discussion with one of Rory’s flatmate’s about popping a pizza in the oven, so I think I’m good for a while.” A pause and a breathtaking smile. “Also I’ve taken one,” he holds up a finger for emphasis, “class on humanistic psych, so I’m basically a certified therapist.”

A smile props itself in the corner of his mouth but quickly falls away. “Just…feels a bit daft pourin’ out me sorrows to a stranger.”

“Name’s Paul.” Like an afterthought, he adds, “McCartney. Not strangers anymore, are we?”

The lip of a bottle meets John halfway across the bath.

For a second he stares at it before clinking it with his own. 

“John Lennon.”

Their eyes meet like the bottles and in the back of his mind he hears a distant _ clink. _

* * *

John isn’t sure why he does it. He’s certainly had enough drinks to loosen his lips, but unfortunately he’s not drunk enough to forget this is still complete stranger. A complete stranger with big, expressive eyes that make John feel any secret spoken is a secret kept. A complete stranger who listens with every fiber of himself—ears and eyes and hands—as if he could possibly care about what he has to say. A complete stranger….

For a paranoid split second he wonders if maybe Stu did see him slip into the loo and sent a friend to pry into him and his deteriorating composure. But, sadly, John knows firsthand the extent of Stuart’s dedication.

So he tells Paul.

He tells him how most people these days have to maneuver around passcodes and face IDs to discover the nudes concealed by a cheating partner. Tells him what a heart-shattering shock it was when some bird’s naked chest (taken with the Kodak John bought for him as a birthday present) came sliding from Stuart’s notebook and into his lap one early Tuesday morning. Tells him how everything immediately became called into question—those late nights spent in the library, the dodgy answers to all of his questions about who Stu was texting so often, every declaration of love that ever fell from his lips. 

He tells Paul everything because once he starts, he can’t stop. A brackish, muddy waterfall of past lies and deceit pouring off his chin and into the tub. 

(It feels like drowning.)

But unlike when he recounted every detail to Ringo, John doesn’t choke up this time. Even if he isn’t in the room to witness it, he refuses to give Stuart that satisfaction.

“Fucking hell, what an arsehole,” Paul is saying by the end of it, upset on his behalf. But then his face softens, hesitant. “I mean—sorry, I know you’re still, y’know, getting over him.”

“No, it’s alright,” John assures him, “he _ was _ a bit of an arsehole. But so am I. That’s why we worked so well.”

“I’m more with the whole opposites attract thing, personally. Anyway, I‘m sorry about the split, you didn’t deserve to be treated like that. Cheating is one of the shittiest things you could do. Always inexcusable.”

John nods, biting the inside of his lip. “Thanks for, y’know, listening. I think I really needed that. Feels like I can breathe a bit easier now.”

“Trust me, I’ve been there before, and a good rant goes a long way. Just glad I could help.”  
A smirk plays at John’s lips. “Well, for a minute, I wasn’t sure whether you were coming in here to arrest me for loitering or do a strip tease. Sexy cop is _ very _ original.”

Paul rolls his eyes like he knew that was coming. “Oi, gimme a break. I’m a professional procrastinator. It was a last minute find I nicked off a friend from the theater department.” He nudges John’s leg with his own. “But I still got no idea what you’re supposed to be.”

He holds his hands out expansively, encompassing the grimy porcelain, empty beer bottles, and general dull air. “A depressed bastard in a tub. Wasn’t it obvious?”

Shaking his head, Paul smiles; John feels a stitch weave back into his tattered composure. “How ‘bout we make you a depressed bastard in a party, then? Think yer ready to head back out there?” 

With a sigh he checks the time on his phone. He’s been in here for close to thirty minutes and has a handful of texts from Ringo.

**Today** 23:27  
where'd u go??  
  
**Today** 23:54  
r u dead?  
  
if ur dead i'll kill u  
  
and it's halloween so i'll get away w it too,, ur fucked lenny

John chuckles softly, then sighs again.

Their chat helped deflate some of the sour air trapped in his chest, but all of his anxieties resurge with a vengeance at the thought of stepping back through that door. His chest starts to feel heavy again, ballooning. The cruel irony of it all is that he knows there’s only one way to relieve the pressure.

“Might as well get it over with.”

“That’s the socially anxious spirit!” Paul encourages before offering him a hand out of the bath and towards the door.

Outside there’s a queue of angry, protruding glares that John can’t find it in himself to give a fuck about. The line leader is some bird with a hatchet lodged in her head who takes one look at Paul and complains, “Jesus, McCartney, really—ye couldn’t use a bloody bedroom? I been holdin’ it for twenty fuckin’ minutes, you bastard.”

“S’all yours, darling,” he calmly replies with a wink, finger slowly and implicatively wiping the corner of his mouth—and holy hell, who _ is _ this guy?

When she storms into the bathroom, John can’t fight the grin on his lips. It almost feels permanent. At the very least, it feels good. 

It lasts all of ten seconds after he spots Stuart again.

“Oh no,” he mutters, unable to look away. “Oh no, no, no, no, no.”

“What’s wrong?” Paul asks with a frown.

“I feel like I just immediately sobered up. I can’t do this. I can’t even do this _ drunk.” _

“Which one is he?”

“Over there. The one next to the blue bitch.”

Paul follows his line of sight and quietly whistles. “Shots. We need shots.” He nods to himself in confirmation. “Be right back.”

The last thing John wants is to be left alone _ now, _ but he can’t beg someone to stay when they never promised him they would. He doesn’t even know what comfort Paul would bring him right now besides feeling like he isn’t alone. Like he has someone beside him and doesn’t have to face this fire by himself.

The minute Stuart catches his eye across the room, John knows there’s no getting out of it now. He sews on a fake smile and voluntarily surrenders himself to the flames. The room feels twenty degrees hotter with each step, and he suddenly has the urge to pee, which may just be a bodily excuse to steal away to the loo again.

_ Be civil, _ he repeats on a loop in his head, because when sober he tends to be acerbic at best. There’s no telling what snide remarks will fly out of his mouth now that his tongue sits heavy from the alcohol. 

“Hey, John,” Stuart greets, but his smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Hey, you two.” His eyes walk up and down their outfits. “Don’t you look…good.”

Astrid puts a hand on her hip and it’s all John can do not to glower at her. “We were going for the pale and decayed vibe.”

“Well, Astrid, love, you always pull that off _ marvelously _ , _ ” _ he says with a sickeningly sweet smile that nearly morphs into a self-satisfied sneer when Stuart clears his throat.

“So, John, you here by yourself or with Ringo or…?”

Before John can answer, a hand clasps around his shoulder and a voice loudly says, _ “Babe, _ there you are!” He turns to see Paul with two shots in his hand and a mile-wide grin on his face. “Was wondering where you got off to. Makes a lad look like quite the alcoholic when you disappear whilst he’s pourin’ two shots.” 

“I think that answers my question,” Stuart says with a small laugh.

Paul turns to the pair as though he’s seeing them for the first time. “Oh, sorry, I don’t think we’ve met.”

“Stuart.” He offers his hand. “This is Astrid.”

“I’m Paul. John’s boyfriend.”

And there it is. Even though a foreboding itch in the corner of his mind told John it was coming, the word still cuts through the music and the drunken chatter and plows into him with almost enough force to send him to the floor. Or into a fit of laughter. Maybe both.

Not even ten minutes ago they were strangers in the bathtub. Now, _ apparently, _ they’re boyfriends. 

Because of course they are.

“Oh?” Stuart says, sounding as surprised by the news as John. “I…I didn’t realize you were dating someone.”

_ Me either. _

The rational part of himself is screaming to tell the truth because this is probably a disastrous decision. But that rational part is buried under heaps of pain and anger and professionally photographed nudes and a heated falling out and before John knows it, he’s confirming, “Erm, yeah. S’been about two months now.” 

He wishes he could say six, though; confess in his own subtle and scathing way that he cheated too. The hint of surprise in Stuart’s voice, the nearly imperceptible way his head draws back at those words as if to miss them, is too perfect not to provoke. And layers of smug satisfaction pile on top of any remnant of rationality left.

“Well, I love your costumes!” Astrid gives to the silence cheerfully.

Paul wraps an arm around John’s shoulders as he grins and says, “This was the best I could get ‘im to do. Stubborn thing outright refused all my other ideas.”

And holy shit, John hadn’t even considered how they must look. His black-and-white jumper, black jeans, and hair slightly disheveled from the earlier stress of the night only coalesce to make him the convict to Paul’s cop. He couldn’t better orchestrate such an organized disaster if he tried.

“Hey, you two should join us in a game!” Paul suddenly suggests, eyes seeming to grow wider and wider as the night goes on. “Bar curling—they got a small game goin’!”

Stuart shakes his head. “Oh, I don’t—”

“C’mon, Stuey, it’ll be fun!” Astrid tries, pulling at his arm.

“Yeah, c’mon, Stuey,” John says, the mocking tone to his words leaving his mouth like razor blades. If Stuart feels uncomfortable, has some murky sense of guilt or shame at watching his past and present worlds collide, then that’s all the more reason for John to stick around longer.

Stuart eyes him with hesitation before he sighs and looks away. Defeated. 

“Fine.”

* * *

There’s no telling for how long they all play. Eventually a small crowd gathers around them, eyes vibrant with excitement because Paul is an unexpectedly impressive competitor and partner. For a while, when glasses are sliding to land precariously at the end of the table and their bodies are taut with anticipation as they wait to see if it’ll tip over the edge, John forgets how miserable he was just minutes before.

Paul pulls out all the stops on the boyfriend front.

Whispering steamy compliments into his ear with a tickle of breath and teasing his skin with lingering touches. The first time John scores them a point, Paul hauls him close with both hands on his cheeks and kisses him. Firm and proud and without an ounce of hesitation. Reminding himself not to act shocked, John can only hold his waist and kiss back. Eventually he can’t tell if he’s just that drunk or if all of this is just that easy.

_ Why are you helping me? _ he wonders with his eyes.

But Paul just winks and he has to settle for that answer and every nuance packed inside of it.

They end up winning the game and it’s the first victory John has had in a long time. It comes with a few smaller victories like Paul jumping into his arms and Stuart trying not to look like someone just spilled red paint all over one of his canvases but failing miserably.

The initial guilt and self-loathing that accompanied lying about a new boyfriend ebbs as the night goes on. Because, in a daft and delusional sort of way, John almost feels like he isn’t lying anymore. Or at least that pretending feels so natural that all the lines are blurring together.

At one point in the night Paul saunters over with a bottle of water and makes himself comfortable on John’s lap. Seats that uniformed bum right on John’s thighs and hooks an arm around his neck like he’s been doing it for years. John notices the lingering of Stuart’s eyes—how they track Paul like a piece of prey—though he finds himself worrying less and less about it as the hours pass.

He has other distractions now.

“Drink this,” Paul tells him, thrusting the bottle into his hand. “Don’t want you spewin’ on top of everything else you’ve been through tonight.”

Grateful, John downs half the bottle, then looks up at Paul with his head leaned leisurely against the settee. His arms have snaked their way around his slim waist without him even realizing it. 

“Yer a real flirt, you know that?” he asks, but is more amused by it than anything. And, admittedly, a little into it.

Paul bites his lip and traces the rim of John’s collar with a finger. “Just playin’ the part, love.”

“And pretty well too. You happen to do any proper roles for that theater friend of yours?”

He smirks, shrugs a shoulder. “Not to brag, but I’ve been a tree or two in my day.”

John laughs. “Well, I think it paid off. He hasn’t been able to take his eyes off you.”

“Oh yeah?” He turns to look at Stuart, who quickly averts his gaze from them.

But John is too preoccupied by the long, pale column of skin exposed by the turn of his head. He wants to bite into it, suck a bruise just below his jaw. “Yeah.” Lowering his voice, he adds, “Not that I blame ‘im though.” 

Paul’s eyes darken at those words and Halloween rushes back to John’s mind—bottomless cauldrons and effervescent love potions. Then all thoughts disband entirely when he murmurs, warm and throaty, “Fancy gettin’ under his skin even more?”

With a wicked smirk John leads him by the nape of his neck into the deepest kiss they’ve shared all night. And for the umpteenth time that night he struggles to wrap his head around how effortless this all feels. Paul’s lips mesh with his own in a rhythm both familiar and new, as though they’ve actually been doing this for the two months they claim to have been.

Until now they’ve kept the affections fairly PG, but if John is going to partake in this fake boyfriend charade he’s going to damn well _ commit. _ He slips his tongue past Paul’s lips—eager to take his time to taste him—and Paul lets him, gives back just as good as he gets. A hand threading through John’s hair, occasionally tugging, pulls soft moans from the back of his throat. 

And for once he doesn’t care about Stuart or this party. Just the stranger in his lap, warm and responsive and talented with his tongue, who took a few hours of his time to actually give a shit. 

When their lips finally part, Stuart is nowhere to be seen. 

His eyes fastened to Paul’s pink, inviting lips, a bullet of courage bounds through John’s blood like quicksilver. He swallows, squeezes Paul’s thigh, and asks, “You, uh…you wanna walk me home?” 

The fingers at John’s nape twiddle with the fine hairs there, scattering chills down his spine. “Love to.”

Moving on feels damn good.

* * *

On their way to the door, Paul suddenly diverts course, shouting, “George—Hazza!” and some bloke wearing a vampire costume and holding a plate of pizza turns around to grin at them. A sharp pair of canines splits it in half, and the corner of his mouth has a red splotch of either fake blood or tomato sauce. John isn’t sure which. 

Paul smiles at him, all crooked and drunken. “I see you finally got that pizza.”

“I did,” George says proudly between a bite. “But now all these sloshed bastards want a bite.”

“George, this is John.” Paul wraps an arm around his shoulders to pull him closer. “I’m his boyfriend for the night ‘cos his ex was a right cunt.”

“No shit,” George says, bushy eyebrows raised high like he can’t believe it. And John will never cease to be amused by the overt concern drunk people show for someone they just met. “You want me to spill a drink on ‘im?”

When John realizes he isn’t joking, he laughs, “Nah, that’s al—

“They’re the two dressed like _ Corpse Bride,” _ Paul cuts in.

John swats his arm. “Don’t encourage him!”

“I’m not!” Paul protests with a laugh. “He can do whatever he wants with that information.”

George shakes his head, eyes narrowed on them in the crowd. “My least favorite Tim Burton movie. Even more reason to do it.”

“Christ,” John mutters. “Let’s get outta here before I grow a conscience.”

“Bye, Georgie!” Paul calls as John tugs him away by the elbow smiling. “Stay hydrated, yes?”

Before they shut the door he sees George making his way over to Stuart with a full bottle of beer.

* * *

By the time they arrive at the door of his flat John can’t bear to see Paul go. Suddenly he fears his flat and the loneliness that will greet him like a cold chill when he walks inside. He can’t fall asleep by himself. Not tonight. Not again.

That’s the last thought that echoes through his mind before he’s snipping Paul’s goodbye short with a sharp kiss. For a minute John thinks they might be on the same page, with the way he practically melts into him. But then Paul gently eases him back with a hand at his chest, and John suddenly fears they’re not even in the same library.

“John…,” he starts, slowly opening his eyes and swallowing what John knows is a combination of both of their saliva. God, he wants him. “John, you just got out of a breakup.”

He tilts his head. “I mean, technically it’s been about three months.”

“You’re not over him.” His words are as soft as his smile—as soft as the thumb rubbing John’s cheek like an apology. “Remember how I found you? Alone and brooding in the tub?”

“I do. But I also remember how you felt on my lap…and how you tasted on my lips.” The silence, the interest in Paul’s eyes, encourages him, has him tipping his lips towards Paul’s ear. “What’s that—that saying? Best way to get under someone is to get over somebody else.”

“Think you got it backwards there, love.” His breath ghosts over the fine hairs on John’s face.

“Baby, I’ll take any position you want me to.”

He laughs, but John doesn’t miss the way his eyes darken at that…spells churning and simmering in cauldrons. “Are you sure you want this? He’s not here anymore, you don’t have to keep up the act.”

John fixes him with an earnest gaze, feeling more sober than he has all night when he says, “I’m not doin’ this for him.”

He thinks maybe those words hit Paul as hard as “boyfriend” had hit him earlier.

Because after that, it’s a tangle of limbs and lust as they stumble to John’s bedroom. 

It’s the first time he’s had someone in his bed since Stuart, but he’s finally ready to smother all of those memories with the scent of someone new. And he can’t imagine a better time to do it than now. With Paul’s mouth hot and wet beneath John’s and his fingers so slender and graceful where they skip along John’s skin like they’re grazing water. 

John is fully aware there will still be something dark-haired and fair-skinned spread out against his sheets, but at least he has new territory to explore. At least he has fresh breath against his ear, a way to hear his name spoken as it’s never been before.

He unbuttons the few remaining buttons of Paul’s uniform shirt and latches his lips to the pale skin of his shoulders. Paul skims his nails up the back of John’s arm, skittering sparks across his nerve endings, and breathes a sigh that really shouldn’t have as much of an effect on John as it does. He was already half-hard before they even made it past the threshold of his room as it was.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, he brings John closer with hands at his waist, pushes up his jumper to leave a trail of soft kisses along his stomach until John finally hauls it the rest of the way up his chest and tosses it to the floor. His fingers disappear into Paul’s hair as he moves lower and lower, working at his fly so deftly it’s almost a work of art. John stands there at the side of his bed, lip trapped between his teeth while he stares down at Paul taking his half-hard cock into his mouth with one fluid motion. He stands there and he releases a sigh that feels like it’s been folded like an origami swan in his chest for about three months and he thanks God for Ringo and stupid fucking Halloween parties. With hooded eyes he watches his cock sliding slowly between a pair of plump lips that he just _ knows _ could swallow him all the way to the base if they wanted.

When he’s fully hard and leaking against the velvety tip of Paul’s tongue, John summons enough willpower to pull out. A thin string of saliva connects Paul’s bottom lip to John’s tip; it snaps when John guides him to lay flat on the mattress. 

He slides Paul’s trousers down his long, long legs. More and more of that creamy skin, that fresh territory, exposed inch by inch. In the belt of the trousers, among other accessories for the costume, John sees a pair of handcuffs, hesitates, and then stiff-arms the thought of this beautiful creature bound to his bed so he doesn’t come immediately. Maybe some other time, when he meets him in another bathtub at another Halloween party.

But for now—

“Fuck me,” Paul whispers against his lips and John swallows the words. Tastes them on his tongue like something of substance and feels them pool heady and thick in his stomach. 

_ God, yes. _

He grabs his lube from his bedside table, and thank _ fuck _ he finally has a use for it besides him and his right hand. When he moves to settle back between Paul’s legs, though, Paul shakes his head.

“What?” John asks, silently praying things aren’t coming to a halt _ now. _

But Paul just gazes up through his dark, fanning lashes, melting John on the spot with a naughty smirk that pulls across his lips like a piece of string. “I didn’t forget what you said about any position I wanted,” he says, voice low and, hopefully, rubbed raw from the slide of John’s cock. “On your back, baby.”

And it’s all he can do to settle back against the sheets without shoving a hand down his boxer-briefs and letting it all go right there. But somehow he manages.

Even when Paul straddles his hips and rides John’s fingers like they can’t possibly be far enough inside him. Breathy little sounds unraveling from his lips. And if it’s only the prequel of what’s to come, John doesn’t know how long he’ll last. His thin eyebrows knit together like they have a secret to share and his mouth hangs open like it wants to tell it. John crooks his fingers and _ rubs _ until Paul is panting into his mouth, “Okay, I’m—I’m good.”

With anticipation fumbling his movements he slips his fingers out and rolls on the condom. The process of easing himself down onto his cock nearly drives John mad, and he curls his toes in the bed sheets just to keep from bucking up into that tight heat all at once. Paul slides down an inch, waits, comes back up, and slides down another inch until, eventually, he has all of John inside him. 

He bites his lip (already five shades of red and marked by John’s own teeth) and splays his hands on John’s chest for leverage. Leaning down for a kiss, he slowly starts to move his hips. He rides John like he’s still in character—like he knows exactly what he likes, and somehow he does. At first but he doesn’t even touch his own cock, hard and leaking, because he’s so preoccupied with clenching around John like a fucking vice.

John moves the hand that’s squeezing his thigh and wraps it around his cock instead, stroking him in time with every thrust. Desperate, keening sounds fill the room so much John can hardly tell which are his own. The fingers on his chest curl, whitening the skin around the fingertips like Paul is trying to crawl into his skin.

“Paul,” he moans, almost there, and loves the feeling of a new name on his tongue. It tastes foreign but sweet, and he breathes it again just to paint the walls with its exotic color.

Paul comes first. 

He comes across John’s chest and clenches even tighter around him and throws John nearly simultaneously into his own orgasm. His grip tightens on Paul’s hips, sure to leave finger-shaped bruises, and he drives up into him even harder and faster until a groan rattles free from the back of his throat as he rides the out the high. 

For a few silent seconds they catch their breaths.

Eventually Paul lifts up—slowly, one last fleeting, sinful whimper escaping his lips—then falls beside John in bed. When his bones start to resolidify John ties off the condom and lazily wipes himself down with some napkins from a Subway sitting on his bedside table. 

With a sated sigh Paul curls into him, cheek pressed just above the place his fingers were feasting at minutes before. His body is warm, sweat cooling on his shoulders, and John’s curious fingers trail across the unfamiliar planes and curves. 

Vaguely he realizes just how difficult it will be to have his morning-after regrets. Those are always mandatory, right?

“I probably should’ve warned you that I’m quite the method actor,” Paul murmurs against his chest, a smile stamping into the skin.

John laughs, swims a hand through his dark hair. Can’t resist burying a kiss there.

“And scene,” he whispers, tasting magic on his tongue.

* * *

John doesn’t know what he should expect the next morning.

And even though it feels incredibly, _ unusually, _ normal, it still comes as a bit of a shock to see Paul still in bed next to him. Still lying back like the mattress has made a home of him and playing Candy Crush of all things on his phone while the morning creeps into John’s vision.

He has an arm wrapped around Paul’s stomach, his lips a hair's breadth away from the shoulder that periodically flexes with the swipes of his finger. He doesn’t untangle himself.

But he does say, “You’re still here,” with a smidgen more disbelief than he’d intended, voice thick and throaty from sleep. 

Paul smiles softly, and all of the dark, haunted themes about him from last night waver in light of a brightness, like an autumn sun, that looks even more natural there. “Yeah,” he tells John, but then hesitation leaches into his voice. “Am I not supposed to be?”

“I dunno. After being in a relationship for two years, you forget what the hook-up scene is like.”

“Well, things have changed now,” he teases. “Not only do I have to obey the required three-hour lingering period, but I’ll even be using your shower too.”

John smiles. “I’ve got a lot to catch up on, then, have I?” Perching his chin on Paul’s shoulder, he points to the phone screen. “Four jelly beans.”

The colorful candies shift under the command of his thumb, and he grins. “Oh, ta.”

From the bedside table John grabs his own phone and his glasses, and his stomach drops when the first thing he sees is a text notification from Stuart.

_ you looked good last night _

Sent to him at two in the morning, when he was balls deep in who his ex was convinced was his new boyfriend.

“Fucking typical,” John snorts, shaking his head.

Paul looks up from his game. “What is?”

John flashes him the screen, clarifying, “Trying to slide back in the DMs when he sees me with someone else.”

Paul rolls his eyes and lays his phone on his chest. “May I?” he asks, holding out a hand for John’s.

He hesitates, but only a second. “Let me see it before you send it.”

He watches attentively as Paul presses the camera in the Messages app and readies it for a selfie. Hair tousled and face still soft from sleep and a bold middle finger held proudly beside his beaming smile. Then, below the picture, he types out: _ and he looks even better this morning :) _

John laughs and, smiling, Paul presses send. 

“Fuck him,” he declares resolutely.

John can’t even find it in himself to be fearful of Stuart’s reaction.

“Bloody hell, am I gonna have to, like, pay you for all of this?” he asks, because surely such dedication to a bit comes at a price.

Paul pecks him on the cheek. “That’d be prostitution, love.”

“Forgot I was talkin’ to a cop.”

He lifts an eyebrow. “A _ sexy _ cop, I believe were your exact words.”

“Oh, so humble, you are,” John says, rolling his eyes and pinching Paul’s stomach.

Grinning, he swats at John’s hand before gently folding his own over it. “Hey, you, uh—you wanna go grab some breakfast?” he asks. “I’m bloody famished and I know a great place with hangover smoothies.”

“A hangover smoothie sounds fuckin’ amazing right now.” The glimmer of handcuffs catches his attention from the floor and with a teasing grin, he thinks to ask, “Would you like a change of civilian clothes, Officer Paul?”

“If you don’t mind,” he says, almost shyly. “Safe to say I’m off duty at the moment.”

Slipping out of bed, he tugs on his underwear with John’s lustful gaze following that smooth, pale skin all the way to the door, until he finally ducks out for the bathroom with a saucy wink. While he’s gone, John checks his phone one last time and sees that Paul’s text has been left on read.

He smiles.

_ Yeah, fuck him. _

**Author's Note:**

> follow me on [tumblr dot com](https://unchaineddaisychain.tumblr.com)


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